


Sonnet 57

by Charlotte_Stant



Series: Shakespeare would NEVER [1]
Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Consent Issues, First Time, Infidelity, M/M, Power Imbalance, Smut, Topping from the Bottom, cousin greg fucks, the working title of this fic was "i'm going to hell"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27507403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charlotte_Stant/pseuds/Charlotte_Stant
Summary: A thought occurs to Tom and suddenly he feels in control of the situation again. “Greg, Greg, Greg. Have you had sex before?” he asks delightedly.Greg is bright red and absolutely refusing to make eye contact with Tom. “Um, kind of? I guess? In senior year of high school Amy Lipinski gave me a hand job on the marching band bus? but uh, I don’t know if it counts because I didn’t, uh, finish. As such. But it was certainly—sexual. Sexual contact,” he finishes uncertainly.“Great, well, welcome to your first time,” Tom says. He can hear that he sounds sarcastic but also, he really means it. “Bedroom, let’s go.”
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Series: Shakespeare would NEVER [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2080614
Comments: 16
Kudos: 43





	Sonnet 57

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that the consent in this fic is highly dubious. Tom commands Greg to have sex with him and assumes he'll be into it, but isn't particularly bothered either way. As it happens, Greg is into it! But if you are sensitive to dubcon, you'll probably want to skip this fic.

Once Tom’s made his decision, it’s just a logistics problem. The kind of thing he doesn’t usually deal with himself anymore, but nothing insurmountable. He imagines summoning his secretary, commanding her to “find me a fuckpalace, please, discreet, nothing seedy,” and stifles a slightly hysterical laugh.

The obvious answer is a hotel, but there are optics issues if anyone sees him. There’s no reason for him to get a hotel room in the city, it practically screams “I’M HAVING AN AFFAIR.” And there are credit card receipts, and it’s not like Shiv checks his spending, but if she did—no, a hotel is out.

The office: no. Tom’s office door locks, obviously, but even so there’s something repulsive about the thought.

Greg’s apartment: absolutely not. Tom isn’t actually sure he has a bedframe, and his sheets are probably never washed. Probably poly-cotton, ugh. No.

Which leaves: Tom and Shiv’s apartment. “Fine,” he says aloud, testing the thought. “Fine fine fine. Just inviting my lover over to my marital home.” He paces nervously, thinking it through. Yeah, it’ll work.

The Friday evening after Tom’s decision Shiv heads out on a business trip, tells him she’ll be back on Monday, gives him a dutiful kiss as she leaves. He can feel his heart pounding. His palms are sweaty, like he’s some nervous teenager. Ridiculous.

He makes himself wait until 11pm. Pulls up his phone, opens his texts, carefully types and retypes a message to Greg until it’s perfect.

>>>Hey chucklefuck, come over. Now.

After a few minutes a reply buzzes in.

<<<hi Tom, i’m actually working with my therapist on boundaries and she says I should try and restrict work stuff to within my working hours?

Jesus Christ.

>>>This isn’t a work thing, asshole.

>>>Also do you have condoms

<<<Yes, I do? Do you need them?

<<<You want me to come over now and bring you condoms?

Greg clearly thinks this is some weird power-trip make-Greg-be-my-delivery-boy thing. Which, in fairness, is plausible.

>>>That’s exactly right, Greggles old pal. See you soon.

Tom paces around the apartment. He adjusts the lighting level three times and brushes his teeth twice. He’s aware he’s being fucking ridiculous, but—finally, the intercom buzzes and the doorman tells him Greg is on his way up.

Greg looks good, when he comes in. There’s rain on his hair and shoulders and he looks windswept, as if he’s come to Tom across the moors or some shit instead of across Manhattan. “You know you can get, like, delivery?” he says, extending a small box of Durex towards Tom. “I think they have like one-hour Amazon Prime now? So you could do that instea—”

Tom cuts him off. “Greg, I’ve called you here tonight because I need to get fucked.”

Greg chokes on air. It’s kind of gratifying, maybe a little insulting, but whatever, Tom’s not going to think about it too much. “Uhh,” Greg says.

A thought occurs to Tom and suddenly he feels in control of the situation again. “Greg, Greg, Greg. Have you had sex before?” he asks delightedly.

Greg is bright red and absolutely refusing to make eye contact with Tom. “Um, kind of? I guess? In senior year of high school Amy Lipinski gave me a hand job on the marching band bus? but uh, I don’t know if it counts because I didn’t, uh, finish. As such. But it was certainly—sexual. Sexual contact,” he finishes uncertainly.

“Great, well, welcome to your first time,” Tom says. He can hear that he sounds sarcastic but also, he really means it. “Bedroom, let’s go.”

Greg obediently follows behind him. Perfect. “Can I, uh, what about, does Shiv? Know?”

Tom turns around, reaches up and flicks him on the back of the head. “No, Shiv doesn’t fucking know. Keep up, Gregory.” They get to the bedroom and he falls back onto the bed, stares critically up at Greg. He’s so fucking tall, and gangly, and shouldn’t be attractive at all. Tom wants to eat him. “Get undressed.”

Objectively, it’s the least sexy strip-tease of all time. Greg is blushing, blotchy all over his nearly hairless chest once he’s got his shirt off. He nearly falls over as he removes his socks, and he mutters quietly to himself, narrating the undressing process in a way that is just ridiculous. “Ok, shirt done, now, belt” etc. etc. It’s ridiculous, but Tom is so turned on it’s almost painful. And Greg is getting there, it looks like, which is—gratifying.

“I assume you watch porn,” Tom says. Greg swallows, folds his hands in front of his crotch. He’s still standing there like he’s Tom’s to command, to assess. Adorable.

“I, uh, I do, but usually not of the—um, the male persuasion?”

Tom smirks. “But sometimes of the male persuasion, huh? Ok, great, you’ll be great. Put a condom on.”

Greg has to fumble back through his jacket pockets to find the condoms. He takes one out, struggles to open it, carefully rolls it onto his cock. “It’s good that we’re, uh, practicing safe sex,” he says, inanely, standing there in Tom and Shiv’s bedroom holding his cock in his hand.

Tom feels joy just bubbling through him. He wants to laugh with delight. “Yep, it’s great, write your high school health teacher.” He grabs the lube from his bedside table, pushes a slick finger inside himself. Tosses the bottle to Greg. “Lube up, cowboy.”

Greg kneels awkwardly on the bed, drips some lube onto his cock. “Is this—enough?”

Tom rolls his eyes, grabs the bottle and slicks Greg up himself. Greg’s eyes flutter shut and his breath hisses out. It’s not un-hot. Tom tosses the bottle aside and gets on all fours.

Greg gets clumsily into position behind him, strokes a hand tentatively over his hip. Tom’s cock jerks. “Sometime this century, asshole,” he snaps.

“Uh, are we not, I guess we’re not doing... foreplay?” As he speaks Greg rubs his hand along Tom’s back, from his neck down to his hips, rubbing slowly with his thumb. The way he touches Tom is ridiculous, like he’s cherishing him.

“Christ no we’re not doing foreplay, Greg, this is a fuck, not Nora fucking Robert’s Romance Power Hour. Get. In. Me.”

He hears Greg swallow and then his cock is brushing against Tom’s ass, too hesitant. Just as Tom opens his mouth to shout at him to get on with it he pushes, and oh Jesus motherfuck Jesus it has been a while and Greg is not small, fuck fuck fuck. Can you forget how to bottom? Tom forces himself to relax, hears his heart pounding in his ears. Greg is gripping Tom’s hip tightly with his hand, breathing hard. “How’re you doing, champ?”

“Um, it’s really, it’s really tight? Like it feels good but also, uh, it kind of hurts?” Greg’s voice is higher-pitched than usual.

“You’ll get used to it. Start moving,” Tom orders. Greg does, and after a few strokes the drag of his cock out of Tom, the slide back in, it’s good. It’s really good, and Tom heaves a mental sigh of relief, lets his head drop onto his forearms, lets himself be in his body in a way he’s not, often. Greg’s breathing is loud and stuttery, his hand flexing desperately on Tom’s hip, and then he’s draping himself over Tom’s back and kissing his ear, wrapping his other arm around Tom’s chest, gasping for air and choking out nonsense words about how good Tom is, how beautiful he is. It’s good, it’s really fucking good, and the warm glow of imminent orgasm is just starting to build in Tom’s belly when Greg stiffens and lets out a groan like he’s been shot and collapses over Tom’s back.

Tom wriggles out from under him. Greg is flushed, sweaty, and looks somehow beatific, like he’s just seen the face of god. They’re both breathing hard. “Not a bad first attempt,” Tom says, “now get me off.”

Greg looks mortified. “Oh! Oh, you didn’t—I’m sorry, you’re never gonna want to have sex with me again, Mr Selfish over here, I didn’t—”

“Greg,” says Tom patiently, “shut the fuck up and get my cock in your mouth.”

Greg does. Tom doesn’t last long, he was already close and the sight of Greg between his legs, eyelashes fluttering as he experiments with angle and suction and figures out how to use his hand and mouth at the same time, it takes him right over the edge. Greg with Tom’s come in his hair, all over his face, that's an image he’ll keep for a long time. One for the old spank bank.

Greg is a snuggler, as it turns out. They have a brief argument about the condom (Greg tries to throw it in the bathroom trash; Tom cries “That’s evidence, you idiot, what are you doing, do you want to write ‘Tom is fucking around’ on the mirror in lipstick while you’re there?”) but it’s resolved (correctly, with the tied-off condom and its foil packet both in Greg’s jacket pocket for disposal later; sorry Greg), and then they’re lying in bed together, Greg absurdly curled up in Tom’s arms as the little spoon, even though he’s about three feet taller. Tom pets his hair, kisses gently at the back of his neck. Fuck he needed that orgasm. He feels good now, tender, full of—affection? Huh, it is affection—for his wife’s elongated goofball of a cousin.

When he feels himself start to doze off he shakes his head, pushes himself up. “Ok, kiddo, thanks for the fuck, time to leave now.”

Greg blinks sleepily at him. “I’m not—I’m not staying here?”

“No, you’re not staying here, idiot. You’ve provided a service and now you need to leave.”

Greg looks horrified, then mad. Tom feels for a brief second as if he’s shot Bambi, but hardens his heart. “I’m not, I’m not your, your bang maid, Tom!” Greg spits.

Tom feels kind of bad for laughing, but also: “That’s not what bang maid means, Greggles. C’mon, chop chop.”

Greg puts his clothes back on, huffily, then lingers awkwardly next to the bed. “Will you. Uh. Do you want to—I mean, probably not, but if you, um, we could… I would be amenable, that is, to, uh..”

Tom cuts him off, which probably qualifies as an act of mercy. “Yes, obviously we’re going to do this again, Greg.”

Greg flushes, smiles shyly, then visibly schools his face into neutrality. “Ok. Well. Whatever. Bye, Tom.” He stumbles on the way out of the room and nearly falls into the door frame. Tom feels a tug at his heart. Amazing what good sex will do to you.

He settles back into bed, pulls out his phone and checks the time. Just before 1am. He deletes the record of his conversation with Greg, then composes a message to Shiv: “Hey honey. Thinking of you. Hope you had a good flight.”

A few minutes later, Shiv sends back an emoji heart.


End file.
